Somebody That I Used To Know
by Youkai-ChoGonou
Summary: No direct slash. Historical Fic Sort of . One-shot based after WWI. Where an Empire ends, a Union begins. A Soviet Union, that is. It's not exactly angst, but it's not happy.


**APH: **

**Somebody That I Used to Know**

**AN: Somewhat Historical Fic twisted to a Hetalia POV. Kind of sort of really deformed to fit Hetalia. Slight shameless Alfred-whump because I love him and I abuse characters that I love. Yes, I know I should be working on Sweet Devil, but when I'm in a RusAme mood, it's hard to write USUK. Oh, and it's only slash if you read between the lines. **

**So, yeah… Enjoy.**

It was a chilly evening in December and the very last person he expected to see standing at his front door on his way home was this man. He nearly dropped an arm full of groceries when he saw the towering figure and flowing scarf. Though, the man wasn't so towering right now. Instead, he seemed so very small.

"You were gone longer than expected…" That thick Russian accent lilted to his ears over the howl of the wind. Something about it sounded wrong. Quiet? Melancholy? It just wasn't normal. Almost haunting.

"I didn't know you were gonna be here waiting for me. Shoulda called or something." When he stepped past the man to push the key into the lock, he noticed the man's head was down, hiding his eyes under his bangs. But that didn't hide the streaks down his face. Crying? That was… so out of character for the Russian.

"Hey… um…" He pushed the door open and stepped inside. "You coming, or not?"

"Is it really being wise to be inviting an enemy into your domicile?" His question was greeted with another question. And a cryptic one at that.

"The hell's that supposed to mean? You're not my enemy—" The click of a gun stopped him in his tracks, nearly half way to the table where he was about to set the food. "What's this about, Ivan?"

"Da. We are enemies now. Or were you too busy daydreaming to remember?" His tone was harsh. Cold. It cut like a knife, making Alfred a little defensive.

That was when he decided he didn't care. He kept walking despite the gun that was surely pointed at his back. Set the food down on the table, then turned to face Ivan who had walked partly into his house, leaving the door wide open. "Shut the door, dumbass. You're letting all the heat out."

Ivan wanted to be infuriated that Alfred didn't sound like he was taking him seriously. But then again, this was Alfred. Those narrowed blue eyes behind Texas told him everything he needed to know about Alfred's thoughts. Defiance. He didn't like being spoken down to like that, and now he would regard Russia with the same attitude he usually reserved for England.

"Just because our governments don't wanna get along right now, doesn't mean you and I have to hate eachother. When did you get so stupid?" There was an edge of annoyance in Alfred's voice that Russia recognized as well.

"Foolish capitalist pig." The Russian spat, kicking the door shut and walking closer to him until the gun was pressed to the blonde's chest. The younger nation didn't so much as bat an eye. He stared the man down for several moments, and when Alfred didn't yield his defiance, or even say a word. Tell him to get out. Nothing. He threw his gun to the side and caught the blonde's jaw in a hard punch.

Texas fell askew and Alfred stumbled back, only to rebound and recover immediately, lashing out with a right hook to Ivan's jaw. "What the hell was that for, asshole? I don't care _what_ your problem is, or _what_ your government says, you can't just _stop_ being my friend just like that! I don't care _how_ hard you hit me, idiot!"

"We will see, da? Maybe… we were never being friends to begin with."

Alfred should have seen it coming. The flash of silver should have been a telltale sign. But somehow, his mind hadn't registered what that flash meant until the lead pipe connected with his knee, dropping him down to his hands and knees when the blow knocked the leg out from under him. No sooner had his hands hit the floor than a second blow from that pipe caught him in the side of the head. Pain exploded in his skull, vision blacking out. When everything finally swam back into view, he was looking up at the ceiling and the taller man was moving into his view, standing over him.

"Sonova bitch…" The American watched as the pipe was raised again, but rather than look at the weapon, his vision drifted to those violet eyes. They were blank, spilling tears over the pale skin. So, if Russia was being controlled, maybe he could appeal to the side of the man that liked him. Alfred kicked out, sweeping the legs out from under the taller man. The Russian dropped to the floor, flat on his back, winded. That gave Alfred just enough time to scamper to his feet and crawl over the larger male, pinning both his arms over his head. He noticed, as he stared down at Ivan, that he'd lost Texas in the scuffle as his vision was a little blurred.

"Dumbass. Th'hell do you think you're doing? Huh?" Alfred shouted at the taller man under him. He shook the man's wrists, knocking them against the floor for emphasis to get his attention. However, this act was in vain. "Russia!" Nothing. "_Ivan_!" Oh, there was a slight flicker in those dull eyes, but it didn't linger. Instead, Ivan shoved Alfred backwards to the blonde's surprise. When had Russia grown so strong?

The next few seconds were nothing but a blur of motion in which Alfred found another explosion of pain making his ears ring. Really, all he could tell was SOMETHING hurt. He wasn't sure what, but it hurt so bad that the pain turned his stomach. He was pretty sure he was on his back, but really, he couldn't care less at the moment. He just wanted something to stop the pain. Slowly, he began regaining awareness and the pain began localizing. At first, all he could do was narrow down that it wasn't his head and it wasn't his legs. Then he excluded his arms. Then his chest. Oh, his side. Yes, middle, on the right. A sharp, piercing pain. Had Russia stabbed him? No… this wasn't Russia. This man goes by a different name and he refused to acknowledge it.

"B-bastard…" Alfred growled, hand going to his side but what he felt shocked him. Wet. Warm and wet. Blood. His eyes focused to see the frozen country over him holding his Makarov in steady hands. Those eyes were completely dull. Even the tears had stopped. Alfred was stunned. This was not the man he knew. Not at all. So it really shouldn't have surprised him with the other flipped the gun in his hand and pistol whipped him. Alfred hardly felt it. He was still caught staring in those frighteningly emotionless eyes.

It took him a moment to register that a hand had grasped his wrist and pulled it away from the wound. Russia brought it to his mouth and licked the blood from Alfred's fingers. Clarity returned to those violet eyes, but they were cold. Colder than anything Alfred had ever seen in the man's expression before. When he thought it really couldn't get any worse, a grin curled up Ivan's face.

Alfred realized he had just witnessed a rarely seen event; A change in power. The Ivan he knew had lingered just long enough, despite the change in his government having already taken place, to see Alfred one last time before dying. Yes, dying. Because this new Ivan, though he was essentially the same man, was something entirely new. His previous attachments didn't matter now. Changes in power like this were such a rare site that they were almost never recognized for what they were. But Ivan had been so strong to hold on.

Ivan held on. For him.

That was a stab to the heart worse than the bullet in his side. Worse than the pipe to the knee or the punch to the face. Because he hadn't said goodbye. Ivan had been there and he hadn't recognized it until it was too late. It was their chance and he blew it. His Ivan was gone.

"Get off." Alfred growled venomously, but this only made the man over him giggle.

"Aaaaah~ What is wrong, little Amerika? Finally accepting that he was being wrong?" The man asked, ever confident.

"No. I wasn't wrong. The Russian Empire is still my friend." Alfred replied darkly. When the man over him cocked his head to the side, still grinning childishly, he continued. "Now, get off."

The man hummed. "Ah, but the Russian Empire is being no more, foolish little Amerika."

"Get. Off." Alfred punctuated the last word with a twist of his body, just barely managing to throw the other off. Seriously? When had Russia become so powerful? The man was always overbearing, but this was ridiculous. "Now, get out." Alfred started to stand up until that gun was pointed at him again. This time, he didn't doubt the other would pull the trigger.

"Use my name." Ivan demanded making Alfred flinch. This was a mind game. He knew it. Forcing Alfred to use the other's new designation would make it real. It would finalize that the Russia he knew was gone for good, killing any hope he had left for the other. He knew this, and yet he knew he wouldn't last the night if he didn't accept this. Sooner or later, he would have to say it, but he'd hoped he could live in denial for a while yet.

"Ivan." Alfred knew that wasn't the answer the other was looking for, and as soon as that fist hit his stomach, he regretted it, but he was a rebel by nature. The blonde doubled over, but found he was in the other's grip so he couldn't get too far. He downright refused to hit the other back. Ivan wanted that. Because if he hit him back, they would brawl until one or both of them lost consciousness. Yeah, try explaining that one to your boss.

"Nyet~" The other nearly sang the word. Alfred took another hit to the gut, presumably for taking too long to reply this time.

"F-fine!" Alfred felt the other pause, waiting for what he wanted to hear. In that brief reprieve, he composed himself and stood back up, glaring defiantly at the Russian. He swatted his hands away and brushed blood from the corner of his mouth. "Get out you Soviet bastard. Get out and don't come back or I'm declaring war on you!" Alfred stabbed a finger in the direction of the door. The Russian turned and strode towards the door, giving Alfred one last glance.

A hopeful American searched for anything left of the Russia he knew in those eyes, but saw nothing. He cursed the Bolsheviks. He cursed the war with the Central Powers where he'd seen the changes taking place. He cursed the Central Powers themselves. But most of all, he cursed himself for not being able to save the Russia he used to know. He hated this abomination that stared back at him through those familiar violet eyes. Violet eyes that were so familiar yet now so foreign to him.

"Do svidaniya, Amerika." The door slammed behind the Russian, leaving Alfred standing there, bleeding; staring at the closed door. Several moments passed before he even moved.

"Proshchaĭ, moya Rossiya."

It was a cold evening in December of 1922.

**AN: **

**Translation: **

**Russia: "_Goodbye, America_." **

**America: "_Farewell, my Russia_." **


End file.
